would turn back. Miraut and Beelzebub, seeming to
understand the movement, looked up at him eagerly, but as he was in the
very act of turning the horse's head he met Isabelle's soft eyes
fixed on him with such an entreating, wistful look that he flushed and
trembled under it, and entirely forgetting his ancient chateau, the
perfume of the heather, and the quick strokes of the distant bell, that
still continued ringing, he put spurs to his horse and dashed on in
advance again. The struggle was over--Isabelle had conquered.

When the highway was reached, de Sigognac again fell behind the
chariot--which moved more quickly over the smooth, hard road--so that
Pierre might be able to catch up to him, and rode slowly forward, lost
in thought; he roused himself, however, in time to take one last look
at the towers of Sigognac, which were still visible over the tops of
the pine trees. Bayard came to a full stop as he gazed, and Miraut took
advantage of the pause to endeavour to climb up and lick his master's
face once more; but he was so old and stiff that de Sigognac had to
lift him up in front of him; holding him there he tenderly caressed
the faithful companion of many sad, lonely years, even bending down
and kissing him between the eyes. Meantime the more agile Beelzebub had
scrambled up on the other side, springing from the ground to the baron's
foot, and then climbing up by his leg; he purred loudly as his master
affectionately stroked his head, looking up in his face as if he
understood perfectly that this was a leave-taking. We trust that the
kind reader will not laugh at our poor young hero, when we say that he
was so deeply touched by these evidences of affection from his humble
followers that two great tears rolled down his pale cheeks and fell upon
the heads of his dumb favourites, before he put them gently from him and
resumed his journey.

Miraut and Beelzebub stood where he had put them down, looking after
their beloved master until a turn in the road hid him from their sight,
and then quietly returned to the chateau together. The rain of the
previous night had left no traces in the sandy expanse of the Landes,
save that it had freshened up the heather with its tiny purple bells,
and the furze bushes with their bright yellow blossoms. The very pine
trees themselves looked less dark and mournful than usual, and their
penetrating, resinous odour filled the fresh morning air. Here and there
a little column of smoke